June 13, 2002
like weeping over a broken image
Beautiful 1950�s slips doubling as dresses..
silky black jackets with Asian style prints..
chunky platform 30i combat boots..
black nail polish..
Jackie O sunglasses..
lips dark as thisleberries..
the constant smell of vanilla and cloves..
sitting in dimly lit coffee shops for hours on end..
reading Poppy Z. Brite and Tanith Lee..
writing poetry..
drawing pictures..
For some reason I just got encompassed in a wave of nostalgia. Memories of sneaking into Aqua Caliente park at night. Wandering through the old brick structures of the "Haunted Castle." Sitting within the circle of "Little Stonehenge" with friends and talking for hours. Playing in the sprinklers of Evergreen Cemetery at 2 a.m. Visiting the Freemason section in reverent silence..
And all I keep thinking is that I will never have any of that back again.
The chapter is over, the book is closed and all but forgotten, gathering dust in some obscure corner.
And I can't help but wish I could find it and clean it off. Place it on the shelf where it belongs. Display it, give tribute.
Yesterday someone who used to know me better than I know myself said that lately I've sounded sad even when I�m happy. He asked if I was okay and said my indifference to everything worries him. I didn�t consider it too deeply at the time since we�ve been estranged for some time now, but maybe he�s right.
Maybe I should work on that.
Maybe I don�t care enough to try.
4:21 p.m.